


Empires Fall: America

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Quest for Independence [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate History, American Revolution 2.0, BAMF Women, Battlefield tactics, Crossdressing, F/F, F/M, Family, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Midnight Riders, Murder, Racism, Slavery, Spies, Turn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-23 09:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11400105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: Sequel to Oceans Rise: Events taking place in America*~*~*~*~*They need an army.  An army and troops.  Soldiers.  Fighters for a war that they cannot hope to win.  A war that they’ve already lost once before.  And they’re simply returning to face the consequences of those actions in their homeland rather than in England and— “It’s beautiful,” Mary tells him.  Fingers squeezing tight around his wrist.  Shackle like in its presence.  He follows her gaze.  The sun is setting on America.  And she’s right.  It’s beautiful.  “It’s setting on British America.” Her breath tickles his ear.  “And soon the sun will rise on simply America herself.”“The United States,” he tries to play along.  It feels like a dream.  They’re four months away from London.  It’s been months since he last stood on british soil.  And now he’s returned and—he’s not certain it’s real.  Mary squeezes his wrist again.  Slides her hand so it presses against his.  Palm to palm.  Fingers clasped tight.





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your patience in this.
> 
> I am still working on writing these and it will take time to update, but I look to update each fic with some frequency. There didn't seem like a better time to start posting than today, and so, without further ado: please enjoy.

Saying goodbye to the ravens, even just one of them, feels like cutting off a limb.  Severing an arm that no longer can serve its purpose.  Still.  The fledgling Lafayette had protected in London is placed in a delicate cage and sent away as swiftly as possible. Unlike the other Tower of London birds, this one’s wings aren’t clipped.  It can fly just fine.  It could fly away and choose not to stay with Lafayette once it gets there.  John wouldn’t blame it if it did.  It’s probably the safer that way. 

He watches it go.  Retreats to his room to bathe, and... finds himself frozen.  Trapped sitting amongst the noisy chatters of the remaining birds as they caw and hop about.  They tilt their their heads this way and that.  Occasionally tapping on the hem of his trousers.  Pulling at loose threads as John’s hands hang limp.  

John closes his eyes.  Presses a hand to his chest.  It aches.  Has ached since they departed.  The burn digging into his body.  Crossing through muscle to bone to marrow.  No amount of rubbing or leaving it alone seems to help.  The scar’s healed.  But the pain lingers.  Sparks flicker behind John’s eye lids.   _ It’s only in your head.   _

Creak goes the door.  Eyes open, head up.  It’s Mary.  He cannot help but flinch. 

She’s brought a basin with her.  Cloth hanging delicately over the side.  He’d left it downstairs.  Ignoring the bath he’d attempted to take as long as he could.   _ A real man could bathe himself— _

His wife closes the door with her heel.  The birds flutter about and make space for her as she approaches.  Kneels at his feet.  Warm water steams up from the basin, and he stares at it for a time.  His hair’s started to grow back.  It’s been weeks since it’s been cut.  But his beard has started to regrow and he knows he’ll soon need to shave it off.  He’s not certain he can manage his hair as well. 

Mary keeps her voice soft and low as she speaks.  Sliding the cloth into the water and letting it soak.   _ “The baron  _ wished me to tell you that our ship will be leaving in the morning.”  Reclaiming the cloth she rings it out.  “At dawn.” 

“Our ship?”  They’ve done this before.  Once a week at least since they first left the Tower.  John’s hands curl into fists and he keeps them like that.  Knuckles aching they’re so tight.  Mary leans closer.  Lifting the cloth so it slowly traverses the space between them.  He cannot help shying away from it.  Like a child fearing the sting of a bee.  He’s not  _ trapped.   _ Not entirely.  He could flee if he wanted to.  Needed to. 

The cloth touches his throat and he shivers.  It’s warm.  Quite warm.  She must have boiled it thoroughly before bring it up.  It’s not cold at all.  Not that it would matter.  He’s taken— “I’m going to America with you,” Mary’s voice stays calm, but it cuts through his senses and startles him.  He jerks a little under her touch.  As the cloth continues to scrub along his throat, his neck.  Tickling the back of his hair.  He shivers unbearably, but she seems not to notice.  His lips tremble.  A question struggling to escape.  

One of the birds, they’ve not named the young ones, manages to hop onto the dresser.  A few sturdy flaps of its wings and it’s done the feat admirably.  Its parents watch with rapt fascination.  

Water ripples beneath the cloth as it returns for a second soak.  His eyes flick to the door.  Alex and Washington had wanted to discuss plans for their return.  Something about provisions and support from continued Prussian troops.  John had wanted to join them, but his chest squeezed tight at the thought of stepping from the room that Steuben had provided.  He’d begged off.  Claimed he’d fallen ill.  

The cloth touches his neck again and he forces his body still.  Strains to move his eyes upward.  To meet his wife’s.  She’s waiting for his permission to touch his face.  He manages a vague nod, and she starts to address the scum he knows he’s collected.  “The journey to France from here is too complex.  Dangerous.  And America... is where you will be when the war is finished, is it not?” 

The gurgling hum that draws up from his throat is mostly positive in sound.  She mimics it.  Trails the cloth gently over his eyes.  Down the length of his nose.  Across his brow.  His fists tighten.  “What about Frances?” he asks quietly.  Proud of himself, perhaps unreasonably so, that the words came out properly.  That he hadn’t stuttered.  That they hadn’t been garbled.  

The cloth returns to the basin.  She’ll want to wash his hair next.  The strands now hang long enough to slip into his eyes.  There’s a layer of grime upon each one and she’ll want to soak it.  Powder it.  Keep him proper.  He knows that she already purchased a wig for him from Steuben’s money.  Nothing fancy.  But it would hide his growing locks.  They’d already established he had no intentions of ever cutting it again.  Once it grew back properly he could tie it off in a club at his neck.  But until then...a wig…

Mary finishes her task briskly though.  Kind in a way he forgot she could be.  Eager to be done with her duty. “Can you remove your shirt?” she asks him.  It takes him too long to respond.  Still.  She doesn’t press him.  Sets the cloth down in the water and strokes Knox’s feathers when he hops closer.  John’s fingers strain around the tie.  Around the fabric.  He pulls it over his head and holds it in his lap.  Pulling away when she goes to wash his shoulders.  Arms.  Down his back.  

This time, he blames the pain.  The whip lashes, though healing well, still sting.  Raised flesh aggravated by the cloth and hot water.  He finds himself leaning forward.  Shying to the left.  To the right.  Hissing at one point when a tender spot is touched.  

Mary apologizes though.  Trails soft fingers down his arm.  Calming and settling as she tries to finish her job.  His cheeks burn dark as he struggles to come up with a valid explanation for why he cannot do this himself.  His answer is the same as her answer.  If given the option, he wouldn’t.  He’d avoid it.  Pull back.  Say he didn’t have time.  

It takes him hours.  Water going cold and making it worse and worse.  “I’m sorry,” he manages.  Closing in around himself.  

“For what?” She leans in closer, and he can smell flowers on her.  Has no idea where she’s managed to find flowers while here, but the scent rises up off her.  He spies a dandelion tucked in her hair.  Eyes going shut, he lets her manipulate his arms.  Lets her scrub the filth from his hands.  

“A real man—” he cannot finish his thought.  She’s settled back on her heels and looking at him with an expression that far too closely resembles one his father used to give him as a boy.  Disappointment.  A firm belief that he’s far too thickheaded to have come up with anything of true value or substance.  John’s grateful when she doesn’t press him for words.  Merely helps him from his trousers and passes him the cloth.  This part, he manages to do on his own. 

John’s fingers wrap tight around the cloth but he doesn’t care.  Just scrubs as hard and as fast as he can.  Eager to be done with this whole process before Alex or Washington or Steuben return.  Mary busies herself by fetching him a fresh shirt.  New trousers.  Socks with no holes in them.  

She comes back and assists him with dressing.  Warm fingers settling the cloth around his shoulders.  The shirt is lovely.  The linen doesn’t press too tight against his back and his scars can breathe.  The cloak that she provides for him sits heavy upon his shoulders, but it doesn’t aggravate his injuries to an extent that he finds bother in its placement.  Her delicate hand slides up and cups the side of his face, and he lets her do it.  Lets her touch his face.  Lets her nails trail gently through his too short hair.  Listens as she breathes, “There... much better.” 

Task complete, Mary flattens her hands upon her dress.  She straightens her frock and smoothes any wrinkles.  Readjusts the pins in her hair.  “You’ve not told Alexander of your...aversion.” Mary lifts the basin as she speaks.  Readies it for removal.  He glares at the water.  At how it sits innocently in the bowl.   _ It’s just water... _

She’d been patient with him.  More than she’d needed to be.  Each time she’d come in with one basin he’d needed to collect himself again.  Needed to start from the beginning four times before they could even get this far.  John just couldn’t accept the process.  Couldn’t just sit in the damn bath like a normal person—

He can feel his throat clench.  His hand rises as if to start pinching and tearing at the skin once more.  Mary’s fingers slide against his palm.  Thread with his own.  “Come help me in the kitchen.”  

Numb, he follows her.  Grateful, in a sense, that she’s there.  Guiding.  Commanding.  Following like a child.  The sparks in his eyes threaten tears.   _ No,  _ John thinks harshly.  Correcting the analogy with what little mental fortitude he has left.   _ Not a child.  A soldier.   _

Steuben’s home is a borrowed structure that sits abandoned near the sea.  It’s far enough from town so as not to draw attention to themselves, but close enough to see if there’s an army preparing to take them into custody.  While their ship is getting restocked and resupplied for the standard delivery of flowers and other goods Steuben had been sending to London, another vessel prepares its charter for America.  

Maine, specifically. 

Mary pours the dirty water outside and fetches a fresh pot of water from the well.  It takes her time to draw it up.  Pumping several times before the spicket finally releases its prize.  John watches her from the window.  Cloak pulled tight around his body.  Chest aching beneath his brand.  

By the time she’s returned, he finds that his throat has managed speech again.  He can feel it unlock.  A key to a door.  Twisting the slide away and allowing words to march forth.  “You’re coming to America with us.”  

“Yes.” 

They’d had the approximation of this conversation not twenty minutes ago, and yet John still feels like a ship lost at sea.  As though he has no bearing or compass.  Drifting ceaselessly.  “What of Frances?” 

Their daughter.  She’ll be turning...five soon?  Six?  John cannot remember.   _ And she’s been abandoned twice already... _ Shying away from the thought, John tries to think of other things.  How Mary took the the time to explain their child to him.  Frances, Mary informed him, is sweet natured and even tempered.  She’s very much like her father in appearance.  Though her hair is her mother’s.  Frances is a charming little lady.  John would like her.  At least.  That’s what Mary’s told him he’d do.  Like her.  

John’s not sure he’s capable of liking children.  He can’t remember ever trying. He’d enjoyed pulling his sister’s hair.  Enjoyed teasing his brothers.  Liked watching them grow.  And yet.  Once they’d all grown up, looking backward felt strange.  As though children themselves were best left alone.  The less time he spent with a child, the less time they had to die under his care.  To fall and break their neck when he was meant to be paying atten—

“Eliza promised to look after her,” Mary cuts in.  She sets about making dinner.  There are meats on the table.  Rabbits that have been skinned and bled.  She borrows a knife from a drawer and sets to butchering the conney.  John distracts himself with potatoes.  Lining them up on the counter.  Preparing them for the chop. 

She intends to make a stew, he supposes.  Carrots next.  He pushes the vegetables about the counter.  Staring at them silently.  They’re small.  Not nearly enough for the amount of diners they have coming.  Famine, he thinks.  There’s been a famine lately.  

His stomach clenches tight.  He can’t remember the last time he ate a full meal.  He’s tried recently, only to find his stomach rebel at the mere thought of food.  More than once he’s vomited on the floor of Steuben’s borrowed house.  Alex waking up and finding him hunched over and gagging. Mary hovering silently in the doorway. 

He rolls an undersized potato about in his palm.  “You love her, though…” Can’t quite bring himself to meet his wife’s eyes.  Neither wear rings.  The paperwork, he’s certain, is all but lost.  Only God himself could verify their arrangement.  And yet.  Here they stand.  Her knife slaps through the meat and strikes the block of wood beneath her rabbit. 

Mary’s always been wonderful at keeping calm.  But there’s something behind her eyes now that John struggles to read.  Something pained.  Uncertain.  Perhaps a dash of fear.  It feels like it’s been centuries since they were children lying in fields.  Giggling about flowers and shapes in the sky.   _ I see a boat.  I see a horse.  Look! A dog.  _ “I’m going to see our daughter again,” Mary informs him.  “I will introduce you.” 

She’ll be tall when he sees her, John suspects.  Tall enough to reach his waist.  Perhaps even taller.  She’ll have spent most of her life in France.  He wonders what he could even teach her.  If there’s anything a father’s meant to do besides pass on his seed to bring about her birth.  If he’s meant to instruct her in propriety.  Schooling.  He struggles to recall how his father treated his own sister.  Can come up with no clear image.  

But the thought of his father does send his chest back to the squeezing pressure from before.  He rubs it fitfully.  “What’s wrong?” Mary presses. 

John doesn’t intend to answer.  He drops his hand.  Fidgets instead with the hem of his cloak.  The sun is setting just outside and Alexander should be back soon.  Back and ready to finalize their journey.  He hopes they were successful. What does it mean if they’re not?

A faint buzzing fills his ears, and it takes a moment for John to realize Mary’s talking to him.  One moment she stood on one side of the room, the next she stood right in front of him.  Hand on his wrist.  He jolts backward.  Nearly tripping on his own feet, but her hand tightens.  Small fingers encircling a wrist that never used to look that frail before.  He can’t remember when that happened either.  “John.” His name sounds strange on her tongue.  

“In Switzerland,” he mumbles.  Pushing through the miasma that has begun to settle before him.  Around them.  “Things were simple.” 

Studying books.  Attending classes.  Horseback rides through fields that never seemed to end.  Francis Kinloch used to laugh with him as they drank cheap liquor by quick moving streams.  Mary went by Martha, and she’d liked to dance.  He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep up if he tried now.  The steps burned out of his mind long ago.  Her fingers tighten around his wrist.  “John,” she repeats.  “I’m going with you to America.” 

Strangely, the tension in his chest fades.  He can’t find it in him to argue.  She presses his potato back into his hand.  “Cut four.”  So he does.  It’s simple work.  And it’s something he’s good at.  

It feels nice to be good at something at least. 

Mary bustles about the kitchen.  She doesn’t chatter, exactly.  Instead, she maintains a fairly acerbic tone as she proffers stories for him to hear.  They are facts and tidbits served out for him to pick and choose from.  She offers pauses where he could interject, though he finds no reason to do so.  John enjoys listening to her speak.  Enjoys listening to simple things like mice in cupboards and the need for cats. 

She’s partway through a tale regarding Steuben’s obscene orchid prices when John catches movement out the window.  He snatches Mary by the wrist and pulls her back to him.  Holds her against his body as he steps out of view from any passerby.  They stand there, hidden in shadows as the shapes draw closer.

Washington and Alex.  It’s just Washington and Alex.  Steuben toddling along behind.  John hisses out a harsh breath.  Feels his fingers locked tight around Mary’s arms, but cannot bring himself to release her.  “I need more potatoes for dinner,” Mary presses.   _ Damn the potatoes,  _ John thinks harshly.  He breathes hard against her neck.  Squeezing her arms tighter and tighter.  “And the rabbits will need browning before they’re put to boil.”  He lets her go.  She steps away and doesn’t look back.  Doesn’t ask if he’s all right. 

Alex would have. 

He almost wants to thank her for ignoring it completely. 

Still, he jumps when the door opens.  One hand going to the knife he’d been cutting potatoes with.  Alex lets himself inside and shakes out his hair.  Rubs his hands together and breathes against them as if he’d been caught in a chill.   He looks up at John with a great smile though.  Crosses the space between them and reaches around him to snatch a carrot off the table. 

“You take that carrot and you’ll be sorry,” Mary snaps out, brandishing her blade like a true weapon.  Alex’s pout is precious.  His eyes mournful as he returns it to the table and grumbles under his breath.  

Sharp eyes, almost purple they’re so blue, flicker up to meet John’s face.  “You’ve washed,” he proclaims brightly.  Smiling as if John had performed a neat trick.  

There was a boy once, seventeen, who served in Washington’s camp.  Just a standard soldier.  Barely knew what he was doing.  He could make coins disappear though.  John and Alex would watch him for hours as he he’d hold his hand out flat and magic the coin away every time.   _ Bit of sleight-of-hand is all,  _ the boy’d said the night before a bullet shot him through his right eye and he lay dead in a battle gone wrong.  

Alex looks at John now like he looked at that boy then, and John suddenly feels far too scrutinized to be here.  He steps away.  “Cut the potatoes for Mary,” he grits out, fully intending to flee the room before anyone can stop him. 

But Washington has other plans.  He and Steuben enter and shake off their cloaks from the snow.  They gather around the fire and Steuben insists that John join them.  With feet dragging the whole way, John does.  

Steuben laughs uproariously as he approaches.  One arm wrapping around John’s shoulders and squeezing him tight.  John’s dropped into a chair, and the good General Washington provides a pitying glance in his direction.  Still rubbing at half frozen fingers as Alex tries to convince Mary into letting him have just a  _ little  _ carrot.  “No one will notice!”

“John,” the General beseeches, drawing his wandering eyes.  “If you would be so kind as to translate for me?” Steuben is watching him also.  Smile broad and proud.  Nodding slowly, John pulls his cloak more firmly about his body, and plays puppet.  Bringing Steuben’s words to life as one does with paint and canvas.  

French, German, it hardly mattered.  And the task felt good, in truth.  He only half listened to everything.  Words coming in his ears and leaving his mouth by matter of routine.  Absorbing the information felt beyond his skills at the moment.  Head full and weary.  He feels as though he’s already slept the day away, barely accomplishing anything, and yet.  Here he is.  

The ravens caw and clatter about upstairs. 

He hardly notices when Steuben’s stopped speaking.  When everyone’s fallen silent.  Eyes staring at him.  He blinks and tries to focus.  “My apologies I—” he doesn’t know what excuse to offer. 

“We’ll be leaving at dawn, John,” Washington tells him gently.  “Are you happy to be going home?” There’s a smile at those words.  A smile and an inclination of the head that means there really is only one answer.  

“Of course, your excellency.”  His eyes flicker toward Mary.  He’s not really sure what home is anymore.  

And he’s too tired to find out. 

 

***

 

The fledgling isn’t missed.  It’s as if it’s parents knew all along that it would leave them and have resigned themselves to that fact.  They fuss over the other two, but generally...they stay quiet and unbothered.  John misses it.  Unreasonably so.  He has more ravens than he knows what to do with, but he misses it.  “Sometimes it’s a good thing to say goodbye,” Alex offers philosophically.  John’s not sure he can bring himself to respond.  He manages a smile. 

Washington orders them packed, and so they assemble their belongings.  What few they’ve managed to acquire since staying here.  Clothing they’d been offered.  Weapons they’d managed to purchase.  There’s optimism in the General’s step.  John finds himself analyzing each word and action in hopes of furrowing out more. All he’s told is “Our rest on the continent has met with some good fortune.” 

Apparently they  _ do  _ still have allies in a fight for independence, and they’re willing to help too.  King George’s death in particular... opened spaces that many countries felt more comfortable maneuvering around.  Commissions are promised.  Prussian soldiers prepare to gather and set out.  Steuben reveals their path to Maine. 

No British ship is looking for them so far north, and so they dare the icy waters one more time in order to cross the ocean.  The trip will be long and slow, but Steuben is enthusiastic.  He’s already had messages from what few contacts he’s kept in the colonies.  States.   _ What are we calling them now?   _ John can’t remember.  

Boarding the ship at daybreak, John holds out his hand for Mary.  Balances her as she gets her footing.  She’s dressed warmly.  Thick cloak around her shoulders.  Her hair tied under a bonnet.  He leads her to a cabin and they sit side by side.  Ravens taking up the whole of the space across from them.  It seemed silly at first.  Stealing the Ravens from the Tower.  Now, John’s not entirely sure if he’s okay with leaving them anywhere at all. 

They seem quite content following them about, and the frigid chill of the ship is offset by candles and many layers.  The birds are miserable, but they’ll manage.  If not.  Then none of them will.  

Alexander’s offered a cabin to share with Washington.  Steuben selects one of his own with a boy from the deck crew that caught his fancy.  There’s one cabin left, and it stays empty for the vast majority of the trip.  The first month is traveled in relative peace.  Ravens held under blankets to keep them warm.  Cracking ice off of water buckets in hopes of drinking.  Wine shared amongst them.

But John’s fidgeting.  And Mary always sees.  “I’d like some space,” is all Mary says when she collects her meagre belongings and apprehends the spare cabin.  She’ll be cold through the night.  But John can’t think of that.   Alex finds him almost immediately.

“I feel as though we’ve not spent a single moment together since we started this journey,” his dear friend starts.  There’s little need for the introduction.  The ravens are sleeping.  The cabin door is shut and locked.  And John open his arms.  

He feels  _ good  _ pressed against John’s body.  

They did this in London.  

Sometimes. 

At night when the cold came too much.  Alex would hold John to him.  Hand over heart.  Lips at his neck.  Nuzzling the back of his head—  _ you’re going to be all right.  _  Fire burns between them, and John’s eyes flutter.  Stay closed.  Feels how his skin lights.  How each touch is a thunderstorm.  But the wake of each slide of the Alex’s fingers is a soothing lap.  His body is a pond.  And Alex delights in sending ripples through his still waters. 

With blankets too thin pulled up over their heads, Alex whispers to him.  Whispers their future.  Whispers their plans.  Dock at Maine.  Push south.  Ensuring that they aren’t captured or questioned.  Meet up with Steuben’s contacts and—

John loses the trail of what Alex is saying. 

The hand on his hip is too warm.  And he’d never been good at multitasking. Alex though... he could talk through anything.  “Do you think we’ll survive it?” John asks.  Slaughtering whatever chance he might have had in having a truly satisfying evening.  Alex rolls him over.  Presses that warm palm against his face.  

It’s different than Mary.

John leans into the touch.  Feels lips grace the crack between his mouth and cheek.  His heart pounds desperately in his chest.  He resists the urge to cough.  Alex promises, “We’re going to survive this war.”  He presses even closer to John’s body.  John hadn’t known there was more space to give.  Heat travels through him.  His neck arches and teeth graze his throat.  

It’s too much.  John flinches back.  Shoves Alex clear off the bed, and he he falls to the floor.  Hissing as he lands on his bottom.  Bones creaking as he rises.  Still.  John’s hand is wrapped around his own throat.  Rubbing fitfully at the skin.  Trembling in the dark of a room that can’t seem to decide if it’s too hot or too cold. 

Somewhere, the ravens are crying. 

“They’ll pay for what they’ve done,” Alex promises.  Swears.  His eyes are flinty steel and his fists are clenched tight.  John stares at him.  Takes in every inch he can make out in the gloomy oppressive dark.  Moonlight outlining Alex’s body.  A mostly drained candle dying in the corner.  

Arguing with Alex has never been his strong suit.  He gives in too easily.  He relents too quick.  He doesn’t like the confrontation, and Alex’s words are often unstoppable as they are.  And he’s been determined to speak since they left London.  Determined to overcome his...difficulty.  Whereas John.  John sits on a bed alone and rubs at his throat and wonders aloud,  “The king is dead.  Who else will suffer for his actions?” 

Alexander Hamilton peers at him through the darkness.  Smile grim and teeth just barely visible.  “All of them, my dear Laurens.   _ All  _ of them.” 

Perhaps John should have believed him. 

At the time...he’d been far too lost to try. 

 

***

 

America looms in the distance.  Holding one of the fledglings close to his chest, John watches as his country draws nearer.   _ “You’ve been quiet all trip, boy,”  _ Steuben proclaims loudly in his usual way.  German digging into the back of John’s head like a promise.  The man positions himself right at John’s side and all but dwarfing him in the process.  The bird caws irritably at Steuben.  Then pecks at John’s calloused thumb.   _ “Between you and your little lion all you used to do was talk, talk, talk.  Now nothing.  Not a peep.  Your fucking bird talks more than you.”  _

The raven even proves that point by letting out a particularly irritable caw.  John lets her go.  Watching as she flies off to make a circuit around the ship.  Find her parents and burrow in close for on a little perch they’ve made up for themselves.  It’s spring time.  Winter is over.  But the chill still bites. 

Steuben waits irritably for John’s response.  But words don’t come easily.  Don’t come quick.  His head aches, and his hands feel like they should be doing something.  He opens and closes his fingers.  Missing the bird he once held.   _ “I don’t know what you wish me to say, sir.”  _

_ “Say you mean to kill these bastard red-coats the moment we get off board.”  _  They’ve been incredibly lucky thus far.  Not a british ship in sight.  John half wonders if there’s even going to be a war to fight once they get to America. 

Have they been conquered utterly already?  Or maybe they’ve already given in.  Their King is dead so—

John dares not hope of peace. 

Not yet. 

_ “You needn’t concern yourself with that,”  _ John murmurs.  He spies Mary at the steps.  Rising up from the belly of the ship.  Cheeks turned pink from cold.  Washington is near the top of the stairs and he offers her his hand.  A flawless gentleman.   _ “I have no difficulty in ending the lives of those who wish me ill.”  _

Steuben’s great hand slaps his back hard.  Pain blinds him momentarily.  His breath is knocked out of him.  His ears feel stuffed with wool, before a high-pitched scream slides through them.  He barely realizes Steuben’s laughing until he’s all but collapsed over the side of the ship.  Leaning hard on the railing.  Breathing as best he can.  He misses the first part of whatever Steuben’s saying, only catches on when the man’s near the end.  “— _ the fight!”  _

“Perhaps,” Washington calls over to them.  “It would be best if you did not permanently incapacitate my Colonels before they have a chance to  _ join  _ such a fight.” 

There’s concern in his eyes, but John can’t bring himself to take note of it.  Can only stumble over his own feet.  Put space between him and Steuben and struggle to catch his breath.  Mary wraps her arm more firmly around the General’s.  Smiles at him dolefully, “Why sir, your German has improved remarkably.”  

“There’s been little else to do on this journey than to improve.”  Alex must have insisted on teaching him, then.  Four months of practice could improve much in a man.  John scrubs a hand over his face.  His hair tickles against his cheeks and he fights to not react.  To not go searching for a knife, eager to cut it off.  

_ They won’t need to cut it if it’s already short.  They won’t need to— _

Mary’s fingers wrap around his wrist.  He jolts, not quite expecting her to show up so suddenly.  But she squeezes firm.  Presses in close against him, and it takes nothing to adjust their position.  Play at being husband and wife.  America draws ever closer.  He has no notion of what they’ll do when they land. 

They need an army.  An army and troops.  Soldiers.  Fighters for a war that they cannot hope to win.  A war that they’ve already lost once before.  And they’re simply returning to face the consequences of those actions in their homeland rather than in England and— “It’s beautiful,” Mary tells him.  Fingers squeezing tight around his wrist.  Shackle like in its presence.  He follows her gaze.  The sun is setting on America.  And she’s right.  It’s beautiful.  “It’s setting on British America.” Her breath tickles his ear.  “And soon the sun will rise on simply America herself.” 

“The United States,” he tries to play along.  It feels like a dream.  They’re four months away from London.  It’s been months since he last stood on british soil.  And now he’s returned and—he’s not certain it’s real.  Mary squeezes his wrist again.  Slides her hand so it presses against his.  Palm to palm.  Fingers clasped tight. 

It’s dark when they pull into port.  Steuben insists that the “fugitives from justice” must hide in their cabins until he swears it’s time to come out.  The ravens don’t enjoy being jostled back into a small room, though they all sit side by side on a makeshift perch as they wait for the next part of their journey.  Casting their black eyes irritably in Alex’s direction.  As if he’s the cause of all life’s troubles.  

Even Knox seems annoyed at him.  More so than usual. 

“Arm yourselves,” Washington ordered John and Alex both before they all descended into the Captain’s quarters to hide.  Steuben’s guns are passed around and brandished with a confidence that feels mostly forced.  Mary holds a long rifle like it intends to explode in her hands. 

“Have you ever shot one?” Alex asks her as they try very hard to stay quiet.  

She grimaces in response.  “It’s never been considered particularly ladylike.”  No.  It hasn’t.  John cannot imagine the look on his father-in-law’s face if he knew his daughter was holding a gun. He grips his harder.  Not bothering to powder or prime it.  This close at range he’d do better with the bayonet affixed on the end. 

They wait. 

It seems to take hours. 

But eventually it comes.  A tap on the top deck just above their heads.  All clear.  No one moves.  Then again, they don’t get the chance to.  The door opens, and John nearly drops his gun wholly on the ground. 

_ Benjamin Tallmadge.   _

He last saw him shot in the field.  Soldiers running them down.  Screams echoing in the distance.  “Sir,” Ben all but chokes out.  Saluting Washington gallantly.  “Welcome home.  You have soldiers who will fight for you just waiting for your command.”  John breaks every fear he’s had since the moment he stepped foot into the Tower of London.  He strides across the space between them, and pulls Ben in for a bruising embrace. 

Alex is with him too.  Vaguely he hears the response.  It’s the first time he thinks he truly believes it. “Major Tallmadge...it’s good to be home.” 

They’re back.  And the second war has begun. 


	2. Mary

Benjamin Tallmadge is not nearly as tall as his name implies.  He has several inches over Alexander, certainly, but he stands at the same level as John.  Just a hitch shorter than Washington or Lafayette.  Mary waits until the boys have detangled themselves.  Offers a polite curtsy to him as he bows a touch in greeting.  “Please, call me Ben.” 

He’s dressed in shades of brown.  A knit cap covers his hair, though there’s some strands of sand colored brown poking out from around his ears.  He’s clean shaven though.  Down to the last speck.  And Mary would bet anything that the knife on his hip was freshly sharpened not long ago. 

John introduces them with the grace of a one winged wasp, “This is my wife...Martha— _ Mary,”  _ awkwardly stinging in every way possible. He hasn’t let go of Ben’s arm.  His fingers squeezing and unsqueezing around the limb nervously.  He’d handled Steuben’s appearance with a fair degree of amusement.  Relief.  Even excitement.  But as far as Mary can tell, there’s nothing like that here.  Instead, he’s kittenish in his attention.  Claws kneading desperately for comfort.  

“I thought you were dead,” John whispers.  “ _ We  _ thought you were dead.” 

“Mrs. Washington told us what you’d done but— _ how? _ ” Alex trails off, words stalling in his mouth.  And then, just as suddenly, they’re each talking at once.  Benjamin looking between them all with a forced smile.  

Washington gestures toward a table centered in the Captain’s room.  “Please, sit.  There’s much we need to discuss.”  Alex moves immediately.  Going to the first chair he could and pulling it back.  Sitting down and staring at Ben like he were still the second coming of Christ.  It takes John longer to move.  Longer to leave.  But Ben helps. 

He starts walking and John follows along.  Stumbling and falling into his own seat as Ben settles into his own.  Mary finds a chair to John’s left and lightly rests her hand on his wrist.  He pauses it doesn’t take long for him to roll his hand over for her to hold it more effectively.  

“I’m sorry to have cut you off at port,” Ben starts gently.  He’s a handsome man.  A long angular face off set by the sharp lines of his shoulders.  He holds himself up like a soldier still.  Back straight and at attention.  Alex and John lost their perfect posture in London.  They tend to slip out of position before Washington.  And Washington never corrects them.  Clearly, Ben shows no such ease.  And Washington doesn’t offer him leave to relax. 

She’s long heard it told that his soldiers held Washington to in almost godlike regard.  Seeing it, beyond the tower walls and familial loyalty that she has long grown accustomed to witnessing between her husband, Alexander, and Lafayette, is a touch unsettling.  She’s not sure what to make of it at all.  

She wishes she knows what to say. 

John’s hand pulls back from hers.  He folds them under the table.  Starts to pull at each finger and squeeze at his own wrists.  As if that’s going to help him.  Not that she knows exactly what would help.  “What is your current status?” Washington asks.  Unbothered by John’s anxiety or Alex’s hyperactivity.  Interested only on Ben’s stalwart discipline.  So clearly on display. 

This is the man who kept Martha Washington safe after the war.  Who smuggled Eliza and her to France.  He’s earned Washington’s respect.  Earned the rare, but undeniably fond, smile that lightly graces Washington’s lips.  It’s the only tell that the General provides.  All else hidden behind his stony features.  Mastering a discipline that seemed impossible only a few short months ago.  

Ben’s eyes flicker in Mary’s direction.  His skin is pale in the candlelight of the  room.  Waxen almost.  There are dark circles under each eye.  She can’t help but wonder when the last time he slept was.  When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.  “With respect...it may not be entirely appropriate for a woman to hear such things.” 

John shakes his head, says,  “She can stay—”

“—go,” at the same time as Alex. They cut each other off.  Meeting eyes across the table.  Alex’s jaw clenches.  Bites his lip and corrects himself almost immediately.  Before John can protest.  “Stay,” Alex amends. “If the General would allow…” 

“I would,” Washington replies.  “Mrs. Laurens is the very reason we’ve managed this far.”

Ben’s not shy in offering praise, “Then we owe you a great deal, madam.”  He bows his head again.  More habit than manners.  Nervous tick?  Raised a gentleman then.  For whatever that’s worth now.  Tongue flicking out past his lips, Ben adjusts himself in his seat.  “I’ve kept to the shadows as much as possible since the war ended.  Doing what I could.”

Looking after Martha Washington.  Ferrying persons of interest from one place to another.  He’s been smuggling anyone he could to safe houses.  Setting up covers for them all.  He’s quiet about locations.  Doesn’t offer names of specific individuals or towns.  Speaking primarily in vague terms.  Mary half wonders if he’s talking in code.  

Licking her lips, Mary intercedes, “If I may ask,” Ben turns to her immediately.  Focus burning.  “How were you not killed with the others?”  During the purge.  And immediately after.  Why wasn’t Ben with the others in that jail cell?  No one ever told her.  And from the way Ben’s face falls, she imagines she won’t approve much of the answer. 

“I was on an assignment...on the day of the battle I was not with the General or his men.”  He tips his head again.  But when he lifts it, his eyes are moist.  Desperation pulling at his skin.  “I rode south as soon as I heard of your capture.  But I was unable to devise an escape for you and the other officers.  I watched our men be executed and I should have done more I—”

Washington raises his hand.  “The war was over, Benjamin.”  It does nothing to make Ben’s expression appear less tragic.  The General goes on, “If you had been at our sides, you would have died in the gallows.  I will not begrudge you your life.  Nor will I chastise you for the life you’ve lived since then.  Particularly as it seems...your life has seen far too little peace.” 

The stories Ben tell aren’t good ones.  He names allies who have fallen.  Towns occupied by British men.  Hostility met with the most extreme of responses. Washington nods along through most of Ben’s speech.  Pressing for more information when Ben is vague.  “Have we lost our contacts in New York?” 

“I’ve not been able to establish contact with them again, no.”  He finally falls out of position.  Shame on his face as he tilts his head downward.  “I’ve tried to, but—”

“—You’ve done more than any man rightly would expect, Major.”  It’s not nearly enough. 

Ben knows it too.  “Most of the enlisted soldiers and volunteers from the war have been treated as criminals.  Set to hard labor or executed depending on rank and responsibility.”  John’s hand travels to rub against his chest.  Press against his brand.  His neck bends, twisted about and awkward.  His lips are pressed so tightly Mary cannot even see their outline.  Just a pucker of flesh where his mouth must be hiding.  Ben continues, “Most able bodied men are treated with suspicion.  There are routine inspections of homes.  Firearms have been confiscated to keep the town folk from rising up. 

“Ammunition,” he goes on, “is the most difficult to come by.  I’ve got markers on where gun storages are, but without the balls or powder, they’re useless.” He doesn’t, Mary notes, have a pistol anywhere on his person.  Unless it’s been hidden very, very, carefully.  She doubts that it has.

“You were aware of our coming here to this port,” John chatters.  Knee vibrating.  Bouncing his heel up and down under the table.  “How?” 

“Contacts.”  Ben does not elaborate.  “At this point in time I can guarantee a force of maybe five thousand men in all of America, but no more.”  Five thousand is not nearly enough.  They’d be slaughtered.  “We need more men.”  Mary fights the urge to roll her eyes.  To be indelicate.  She focuses on John’s knee.  How it keeps jittering.  How he can’t seem to sit still.  

“Fetch me some wine, John?” she asks him quietly.  He all but explodes from the table.  Chair scraping back against wood.  He walks swiftly to the cabinet the Captain has against the wall.  Back to the room.  Hands shaking still.  Clearing her throat, she tries to draw attention away from her husband.  Away from how wholly unprepared he is to be rushing off into another warzone when he barely survived the Tower.  “What do you suggest...Major?”  

Shifting in his seat, Ben’s eyes dare a glance toward Washington.  “With you leading the troops, we believe that your presence will inspire others to draw support.  That you’ll attract a following, sir.”

Washington shakes his head.  Calls for John to bring a glass of wine for all of them.  It’ll give him more time to calm himself.  It also gives Washington a chance to think.  “We’ll need more than five thousand to engage in any battle in the field,”  the General starts.  “And we’re too far north to access our southern allies.”

“The south won’t trust a Northerner in a fight,” Ben whispers.  “They wouldn’t answer when I tried calling.” 

Glasses clink together.  Balanced on a tray.  John walks it back to the table with steady hands.  Talking slowly as he does.  “They won’t risk themselves or their families for someone else’s without gain.  It’s against their nature.” 

“So a southerner will need to convince them,” Alex surmises. 

Each glass is served.  John went out of his way.  Providing one to Mary, one to Washington.  One to Alex and Ben.  Then he opens his mouth, and proves just how insane he’s truly become.  Back straight, and eyes pretending to be fierce, John says, “I’ll go,” and sits in his chair.   

_ No.  _  Mary’s hand lifts in the air, hesitates.  Not knowing where to go.  She tries to speak  “John—”

But Washington speaks over her, “Your family  _ is  _ well respected in the south.  Is it still?” The question is directed at Ben, who hardly needs to answer at all. 

“It matters not, arriving in the south, freshly freed from the Tower? He’ll be the hero the people turn to.” 

Mary tries again. “John—”

He doesn’t listen.  “Then I’ll go.  I’ll go south.  I’ll get the men we need.” 

“What men?” she finally shouts.  Drawing their attention.  Everyone’s, save  _ John’s.   _ John’s eyes are locked at the wine he’d brought.  He’s far too still.  After so long in motion.  So long chattering and struggling to maintain conversation that even sounded somewhat reasonable, this feels  _ wrong.   _ Wrong and unacceptable and—

“Slaves.”  The expression on Alexander’s face is nothing short of angelic.  He is Michael standing before all the armies of hell.  Grinning and proud.  “You’re going to free the slaves.” 

Mary doesn’t even need to hear his reply to know it’s true already.  He finally is doing what he’s always threatened to do.  And Washington settles it with a toast.  “You have command of the Army then.   _ General Laurens.”  _  A promotion.  A promotion to equal a rank necessary to command all the southern troops.   _ Dear God.  _

The wine tastes foul on her tongue, but Mary swallows it all in one gulp.  Then she gets up to pour another.  It’s as if all the world is blind, and she’s the only one who can see. 

 

***

 

There’s a cabin in a nearby town.  Someplace that Washington, Alexander, and Steuben can hide out in with Ben while they start orchestrating the northern forces.  It’s faster if John sails south for half the journey rather than attempting to navigate it entirely on his own.  Ben can invent a cover story faster than anyone Mary’s ever seen.  Suddenly John’s got an identity.  New clothes.  A pass for travel.  

Which would all be just fine if no one saw the scars on his back or the brand on his chest. A thought that no one seems to mention as they discuss John’s future travel plans.  Mary sits still and silent, and watches as John practices at keeping still and silent.  As he excuses himself only after several hours have past, and even then it’s with purposeful steps that reveal far too much.

John goes to his cabin alone.  And if there is one thing that John has hated from the moment he left the Tower, it’s being  _ alone.   _ He’s not  _ good  _ alone.  Cleaning up the dishes that they’ve accumulated, Mary borrows a knife from the Captain’s collection.  

She follows John back to his cabin while Alex is otherwise engaged in conversation.  Pushes open the door John had closed tight.  Scoots one of the ravens to the side so she can sit on the bed.  Ignoring how it caws at her in aggravation.  Telling him, “You’re quite possibly the most absurd man I’ve ever had the misfortune of marrying.” 

John keeps his back to her.  Head bowed down.  “Do you have a habit of marrying many men who bring you misfortune?” It’s not as biting as she’s used to.  He’s usually capable of delivering far harsher retorts.  

“So you’ll be traveling south shall you?” Mary presses.  She cannot fathom his idiocy.  Cannot understand why his mind willfully opens him up to paths that will only lead him to heartbreak and sorrow.  He cannot wash without terror building in his body.  And Alex was required with Washington.  Ben needed to secure his contacts.  John would be traveling south on his own.  With no one at his side.  No one to aid him.  

At the very least John hadn’t been wholly irresponsible with his time on board.  Steuben had run John and Alex through a variety of drills during their journey.  Washington too for that matter.  Muscles not quite  _ atrophied  _ in their time as slaves or prisoners (whichever term they preferred to use).  They still had lean muscle strength.  And yet, Steuben had pointed out how their endurance had been lacking.  Had ran them through drill after drill so they could fall into formation and at least keep their chins up.  

Mary had spent her time watching.  Memorizing.  Following John with her eyes and keeping in mind every flinch.  Every falter.  Every time his body couldn’t follow through with the demanding effort that Steuben required of him.  Gone truly was her flower dealer, Will.  Replaced entirely by a prussian Baron intent on leading soldiers to victory.  Or at least training the leaders so they knew what they were doing. 

Mary had watched.  Mary had memorized.  And as her husband turns to look at her, Mary remembers _everything._ Every step every formation.  Every stance.  Every spoken word in the call and response.  She can summon each one to her mind.  She can return each utterance if pressed. 

In those drills, John had pressed himself more than he likely should have.  Back still healing.  Attitude progressively souring.  He took to talking to himself not long after each one.  Talking to the ravens too.  Stroking their feathers and waiting.  Waiting.  She’d wondered then, as she wonders know, if John’s waiting for the moment when Fate draws his string taught.  And finally cuts the fraying thread.  Severing it entirely, and sentencing him to death. 

Now, here, in the privacy of their cabin where no one is there to judge, he paces.  He lets his hand rub at his throat.  Pinching and squeezing and bruising.  He says, “We need more men,” as he fitfully runs his hand through his hair that  _ still  _ bothers and calms him in equal measures.  He shivers before her and he shows no signs of peace.  Calm.  Tranquility.  No signs of the soldier she suspected he once was, but never witnessed for herself. 

John goes on, “There are hundreds of thousands of slaves.  The population alone would be enough to turn the tide in the war.  They could get freedom afterward.  Schooling.  We could set up schooling and education.  _  All men are created equal,  _ those were the words on our declaration we should—” he stops short.  Breathes in harshly.  Lets it out slow.  Tears are pressing to his eyes and he turns away once more.  Embarrassed or ashamed. 

Mary gives him a moment to collect himself.  Gives him time to consider all the options and variables.  Gives him the chance to find peace.  And when it doesn’t come, she sighs.  As loudly as she can manage.  Putting as much disappointment in her tone as she absolutely can.  “And I’d been so looking forward to life on dry land for a while.” It takes him a long time to turn to face her.  Blink at her.  Uncomprehending.  

Reaching up, Mary pulls the ribbons from her hair.  The pins and clasps that held it in place.  The tie that knots it where it needs to go.  She takes the knife in hand and John stands frozen as she lifts it to her locks.  Sawing through the edges as best she can.  He flinches backward.  Gaze fixed on her progress, until her hair lays limp in her fist. It’s long enough to fold into a club.  But not too long as to appear feminine.  

She holds her hair out between them like an offering.  He doesn’t take it, and she doesn’t move away.  They are frozen in time.  A simple tableau.  John doesn’t move a muscle.  Yet his lips move.  His voice rises up in his otherwise paralyzed body.  “Why….why would you—that makes no sense, what have you done?” 

Mary speaks slowly.  Keeping her words small and precise.  So there is no confusion.  “We’ll need to ask Ben for more clothes,  _ General _ .  However, you can’t expect to go to battle without an aide-to-camp can you?” 

“Aide-to-camp?” 

“Naturally, you’ll need to teach me how to fire a gun, so I’m not likely to shoot  _ you  _ on accident.  I’d like you to know that when I do shoot you it’s entirely on purpose of course.” 

John’s eyes blink rapidly.  Brain struggling to understand.  To follow her actions to their conclusion.  He settles for parroting back, “Of course.”

“You won’t be alone John,” Mary swears.  Her fingers tighten around her lock of hair.  His eyes drop down to stare at it.  “Never again.” 

Then, finally, slowly, he lifts his hand to take the lock from her.  To take it, and hold it close to his chest.  Just above his brand.  Repeating softly, “Never again.” 

They’ve been married for so long.  Years of their lives devoted to one another in name only.  And yet, as they stood before each other here on a quiet port in Maine, Mary believes this may well be the most logical choice she’s ever made.  The most sensible step in the entirety of their relationship.  She’s not sure what she’s doing right now, nor what she’ll be doing in the future.  However, in this moment: it feels as if they have finally had their start. 

Her husband looks at her.  Tucks her hair in his breast pocket.  And says “Thank you.” 

It’s the first time she thinks he means it.


	3. Alex

Alex knocks before he enters John’s cabin.  Waiting patiently for John to give him permission.  It’s hard to do.  He wants to burst in.  Tell John everything he’s missed.  Divulge his thoughts on what’s happened.  Words, words, words! They’ve been building all afternoon and he needs to get them out.  Needs to breath life into them.

The door opens, and he blinks.  “Your hair!” is all he can manage as he stares into the face of Martha Laurens. Her hair’s been cut haphazardly.  Leaving it to dangle awkwardly around her chin.  She tilts it upward, however.  Glaring at him.  All but daring him to make any further comment. 

“Let him in,” John’s weary voice beckons, and Mary steps aside without uttering a single word.  As eager as Alex had been to speak, now he cannot even manage to get his thoughts in order to describe the scene before him. 

Assorted ravens dozing on a perch.  John sitting on one of the beds, feet on the floor and hunched over.  Mary hovering not far away, arms crossed defensively.  Standing proud and shameless in a borrowed shirt and trousers.  She’s got a glint in her eye.  An urge to fight.  And Alex may just take her up on the offer, but he’s still left without facts.  Information. 

When Mary closes the door behind him, he’s left statuesque in the center of the room.  Lips moving without any sound coming out.  Throat tight.  Brain buzzing.  His fingers flex at his sides.  John breaks the silence.  He doesn’t meet Alex’s eyes though.  Just keeps staring down at the ground.  Neck bent.  Like he’s expecting a strike Alex would never deliver.  “Mary’s coming south with me.”

Pieces immediately slide into place.  Some of the thoughts rearrange themselves and form a line.  Priorities settling in well enough for him to turn to Mary.  “You intend to travel as a man.” 

Her chin tilts even higher.  Shoulders squaring for attack.  “I intend to serve as his aide-to-camp.”  

There are endless complications to that proclamation.  First and foremost, “You’re a woman.” 

“As you can plainly see, at this time I am not a woman.”  She dares to wave a hand about her person.   _ There you have it.  _

Thoughts cut their places in line.  They renegotiate the order.  “You’re a particularly foolish woman wearing your husband’s clothes.  Intent on either getting he or yourself killed for—”

“—for what, Alex?” John asks him quietly.  His head is still turned away.  Hand held tight around something Alex cannot quite see.  It’s hiding between John’s knees and the shadow cast from the room’s lone candle.  “Whether she’s a woman or a man, should the British discover who we are we’ll both be dead regardless of our clothes.”  He pauses.  Then adds, “Or our hair.”  

“ _ You  _ support this idea?”  He can’t see it.  Not really.  John’s never been overly fond of his wife, and the notion that he’s intending to travel south with her as his  _ aide-to-camp  _ of all things seems absurd.  She cannot even fire a gun.  Alex cannot imagine her penmanship, and she’ll  _ need  _ proper penmanship. 

But for once the  _ happy  _ couple seems united.  Mary’s back straightens to near perfect soldier-like posture, and she refuses to back down.  “The alternative of course, is that John will travel south alone.  By himself.  With not a soul to speak to, as he attempts to convince the nation that in order to save their lives they must let loose their  _ property.” _

Alex resists the urge to flinch at the word.  But the phrasing pulls up memories he’d much rather forget.  Almost immediately his mouth seals shut.  Locked like the shackles the British had been  _ so  _ fond of.  Key lost at sea.   _ Don’t speak.  _  He couldn’t if he wanted to.  He half wonders if Mary intended that when she attacked.  

_ “C’est assez,”  _ John mumbles.  He stands, tucks whatever he’d been holding into his pocket, and walks toward Mary.  “I want to speak with Hamilton alone.” 

She stares at him.  Jaw clenched tight.  Anger flickering in her eyes.  Alex cannot entirely blame the reaction either.  She has just thrown away any chance of a normal future on the absurd notion that she could be his aide-to-camp.  Yet, she nods her head.  Steps aside.  No words of love, no kiss.  She leaves the room without saying another thing, and Alex still cannot find his voice. 

What a group they all make.  

John holds out his hand.  Pale fingers tremble in the air, but he holds it out anyway.  Waiting for Alex to take it.  To join him by the bed.  They sit.  Side by side.  Shoulder to shoulder.  A part of Alex wants to invite Ben in.  They could all sit on the floor.  Eat jerky and pretend that it’s two years earlier.  Three.  Maybe four.  Tapping shoulders and playing games.  Laughing.  It’d be nice to laugh. 

“She just cut it,” John mutters.   His fingers are fidgeting again.  Reaching up and down.  Stroking the sides of his neck.  Encircling it.  Letting it go.  He struggles to sit still.  Alex wonders if he’s even going to be able to ride a horse.  

“She just cut it,” John goes on, “and I didn’t know what to do.  What to say.  Couldn’t really stop her.  She had the knife and I just watched.  I should have stopped her, but there’s no stopping anything now.  She’s going to be coming with me one way or another.  It’s safer, isn’t it?  If she comes with me?  Safer than leaving her behind.  She did save our lives.” 

Babbling.  John’s babbling.  Babbling faster and faster.  Working himself up.  Alex nudges his hip and pulls him down.  It’s still cold out.  A thin blanket covers them both but their heat comes primarily from each other.  John lays with his back pressed against Alex’s chest and Alex closes his eyes.  Rests his palm against the brand that covers John’s heart.  Rests his brow against lashes that will never fully heal. 

He saw slaves on the islands with scars that ran so deep and so thick they seemed to form barricades from one side of the body to another.  Mountains that seemed unconquerable.  Carried on bodies that revealed unparalleled strength.  They rose each day, carrying the weight of far too much on their backs.  And they continued to work in the service of those who intended more harm to fall upon them. 

John always dreamed of freeing the slaves in the South.  Now here’s his chance. 

“Can’t call her ‘Mary’ anymore, I suppose.  She’ll need another name, she changes it so often.  It’s not fair, really.  She gets to change it whenever she pleases.  Suppose it’s safer if she does, though.  I don’t want her hurt.”  John takes a deep breath.  Repeats the last line.  “I don’t want her hurt.” 

There’s more to this than that.  John knows it, Alex knows it, and Mary knew it when she cut her hair.  Alex demands his thoughts to reform.  Demands they line up.  Single file.  One word in front of the other.  He breathes harshly.   _ Get it out.   _ “I could go with you.”  It’s not quite what he meant to say.  But accusing John of being afraid of solitude wouldn’t have gone much better. 

Instead of tensing, John relaxes.  Instead of being defensive, John merely sighs.  Presses closer into Alex’s embrace.  Stares out toward the flickering candle eating the last of its wick.  And says, “No.  You can’t.”  And perhaps it hurts all the more, because it’s true.  “Washington needs you here,” John continues, “and even if he didn’t, they’ll never trust you.  Besides, I hardly believe you’d manage to find friendship in the south.  Their lifestyle doesn’t suit yours in the slightest and you’re going to have to speak with them.  And I’m not saying that you are incapable of speaking with them, Lord knows you can speak to anybody.  But they live a certain kind of life, and it’s not a bad life.  It’s—It  _ is  _ a bad life.  I know it is.  But, it’s a life I know and—” John stops.  Breath forces from his nose.  “You can’t leave here.” 

He stares at Alex.  Stares at him with wide eyes and mouth hanging open, and Alex tries to make sense of the verbal mess that he’s been given.  The majority he discounts immediately.  Repetitious and unnecessary to retain.  But the final...the final comment bears interest.  He lets himself imagine it.  Imagine what it’d be like. Leaving Washington.  Traveling south with John to help him with his army.  

It’s an interesting fantasy.  And, Alex admits, fantasy is all it will likely lead to.  John’s right, of course.  Washington  _ does  _ need him here.  And there’s nothing that Alex would be able to do in the South that couldn’t be better served in the north.  And yet he cannot help himself.  He grits his teeth and tugs John closer still.  All but burrowing through his body in an attempt to keep them together.  

Words, words, words.  They slip from John’s lips like a babbling brook, and Alex half wishes for even that measure of dexterity.  For even that is more than Alex finds himself capable of.  Each time he speaks it feels like he must punch through it.  Must plan each sentence like it is a battle.  Must calculate each conversation like a chess game. 

And John continues to babble.  

Words spilling out.  Tripping over themselves.  Mouth is unguarded. Shivering intermittently.  But when Alex tries to calm him, tries to turn him over and nuzzle his throat, kiss where bruises have long since faded away—John pulls away.  

Says “No,” as he sits up fully.  

He huddles against the wall by the bed.  Knees drawn up to his chest.  One hand pressed his his face.  Speaks words that he’s avoided speaking for months.  “My father wrote my death warrant.”  

“Yes,” Alex whispers.  Too quiet.  He might not have been heard.  John doesn’t seem to care nor notice.  He simply stares downward.  His attention and his concern pulled into so many places at the same time.  “Will you…”  Alex’s throat tightens.  He chokes on the remainder of his sentence, “Be all right?” 

Laughter, Alex has long suspected, was John’s way of disarming those he converses with.  In setting them aback.  Making them question and doubt.  John laughs and the sound holds no humor.  His voice hitches in the rises and falls, but eventually it smooths out into a settled hum.  Hysteria not quite being reached, but at the same time, true enthusiasm never gracing Alex’s ears. 

The candle finally eats the last of its wick.  It flickers valiantly in an attempt to hold on to life.  Alex knows he should fetch another, but he doesn’t.  Instead, the room plunges into darkness.  Only the moon shines through. 

His dear friend doesn’t answer the question.  John’s mouth forms other words, and the topic is redirected toward something only slightly less comfortable.  Tears prick at Alex’s eyes as he watches friend sink deeper into the depths of dark despair.  As he listens to John gasp out, “How do I say goodbye to you?” knowing he has no answer to provide. 

Somewhere on this ship, John’s wife has cut her hair and transformed herself into a man as best she can so she can ride off with John.  Be the  _ companion... _ that even Alex can grudgingly admit he likely needs.  She’s right.  John’s not well by himself.  Too prone to letting his mind wander.  Wrap into circles and spiral downward until he’s lost the thread he’d meant to follow.  

Alex opens his mouth.  He can still feel the tightness there.  The reminder.   _ Don’t speak.  No one wants to hear you speak.  _

_ Damn no one,  _ Alex thinks savagely.   _ I will speak.  Now and for all eternity.  And the one who intends to stop me will be the one who ends my life.  For until that moment I’m going to do it.  Now  _ speak  _ damn it!  _ “You’ll be required to lead.”  Alex takes a deep breath.  And another.  He reaches out so his fingers can grip tight to the cloth that hides John’s knees.  “To command.  To. To  _ build  _ an army out of those who may disagree with you entirely.” 

“I’m not a diplomat.  I never have been.  Not like you.  Not like--like Adams or my father or any of the others and.  I’m a southerner yes, but there’s no guarantee that they’ll even feel inclined to listen to me.  Not only that but I’m not going to be asking them for something they’d feel keen on giving me.  I have no understanding of how I’m meant to follow through with this decision and I--”

Alex leans forward.  Kisses John soundly.  It’s hard to find his mouth in the dark.  Yammering as it is.  But he manages after a time.  First colliding with John’s nose, then eventually trailing down to John’s slack mouth.  His tender lips.  John’s stiff beneath him.  Never nearly as comfortable with such contact as Alex longed he would be.  But he remains there.  Not pulling away.  Not changing direction.  

Rallying all his remaining energy, Alex breathes his intentions past John’s lips.  “The slaves of the south will find you more acceptable than their current masters.  And slaves revolt when they are offered a strong enough leader.”  John shivers.  Alex almost feels guilty about how nice it feels.  John’s body against his.  Moving in any way.  Any way at all. 

As John squirms, Alex goes on. Tells him precisely the course of action that he needs to take.  Each word twisting the ties around Alex’s heart.  Combating the ever-present voice of a long dead jailor who insisted on tormenting him until his voice felt unnatural upon his tongue.

He wills away feelings of terror that rise whenever thoughts of revolution cross his mind.  Wills away thoughts of the islands.  Of standing there and watching as violence erupted.  As blood spilt into the streets.  When bodies lay upon the ground and water washes into it, it stains the water red.  Forming a river.  A river that streams down muddy paths as a dark reminder of how deadly things had become. 

“But the masters are not the ones who are going to be assisting us in this war.  They with their money and their derelictions have forsaken the true patriots who long for freedom.  And as we must have a war to gain such freedom, then it is the soldiers to whom your alliance and allegiance belong.  And it is to you, their commander... _ General... _ that they will need to learn to follow.”

“I’ve not money.  No clothing.  No weapons nor ammunition.  I’ve nothing to arm such soldiers with.  I’ve my word and an empty promise, one that will not satisfy that citizens of the south as we rise up to defend them against an army they have already surrendered to.  The fight may already be over.” 

Alex kisses him again.  Pushes against John’s knees so he’s crowded John fully against the wall.  He can feel how John’s muscles have gone taught.  Can feel how John’s preparing himself to flee.  He has an aversion to solitude.  But he also maintains an aversion to feeling cornered.  To feeling as if he has no other option.  It’s the only time he’ll lash out and do so to the death.  When all other escapes have gone from him.  

John has no reason to fear Alex. He leans in even closer.  Covering John’s body fully with his own.  Thoughts in order.  Words prepared.  He growls through the obstruction that his mind has presented within his brain and he fights hard to make sure that each word is exact and necessary.  “Our goal is democracy is it not?” 

There’s a humming response a kind of pressured gasp that twists John’s head to the side.  Bent away.  Alex nuzzles in close to his ear.  Strokes his sides until the tension abades.  Until John accepts that it’s  _ him.   _ Not some monster intent on doing him ill.   _ Him.   _

“And our country cannot, as it stands, be a true democracy when the monarch who claims dominion over it is incapable of serving as a head of state.  When he presses slavery upon those who dare to question him.  And if we truly wish for a state in which the sovereign people are guided by laws which are of their own making, then we cannot allow such delegates to retain hypocrisy in the south.” 

John’s arms wrap around Alex.  Not pushing or pulling.  Just containing.  Keeping him still.  The first of Alex’s thoughts has completed its place in line and scurries to the back.  Eager to find more words to place in order as the next takes its position in the front.  “The essence of a republic or democracy is equality, it follows that love of country necessarily embraces the love of equality.”

Taking two fingers, Alex tilts John’s chin up.  Eyes adjusting in the dark, Alex can just make out John’s face.  Can see the pained shadows under his dear friend’s eyes.  The grim set to his lips.  “If we intend to have a country, a  _ United States of America  _ where we have established a real and true democracy, the first of its kind, then we must call all men to equality.  Grant full citizenship.  Dispel of all tyrants.” 

“Even if the tyrants are the men and women who have lived in this country under British dominion?  Even if they have a lifestyle dependent on the slaves that they own?  Abolition is my aim, yes, but Alexander--they will not part with their property without violence.  And if we are fighting a war against the British, bringing violence to our own people may cause more harm than good.  It may--”

“--Terror.” John’s mouth closes.  Alex presses a hand against John’s chest and can feel the poor man’s fluttering heart beneath his palm.  “People react to terror.  And if the terror of our making is greater than the terror of the British, then they will follow you to avoid the face of such terror.”  John’s tongue peaks between his lips.  Licking them tenderly.  He’s pale.  Shaken.  Uncertain.  That’s all fine.  Alex continues to soothe and settle.  

They’ve not spoken of this before.  They’ve not taken their conversations to this extent.  But now, the war is here.  It is upon them.  Very soon the British will learn of their arrival and they will be forced to react.  Forced to take all necessary measures.  Benjamin Tallmadge didn’t sacrifice all he did throughout the past two years in order for their final mission to fail. 

They need the southern army.  And the only one who is capable of bringing it to fruition is John.  “You will...tell the people of the pains that the British have enacted upon you.”  Alex swallows the ball in his throat.  He presses harder against John.  Stealing strength when it feels he has none left to give.  He needs to speak.  Needs to get this out.  He doesn’t know when he’ll have another opportunity to do so and he needs this chance here and now.  

John’s eyes are wide and slightly panicked.  He’s being pressed too much.  Too far.  But Alex cannot stop.  He needs to keep going forward.  He’ll apologize when he’s finished.  When all this is done.  He’ll apologize and take care of the tender soul who has chosen to love him.  Who has been willing to stand and fight by his side.  Who saved his life with a lie, and who Alex would feel lost without.  He will not allow John to leave, regardless of the emotional stress this conversation is having on his body, without ensuring that John understands how to survive. 

From this moment onwards, survival is all they can hope for.  And it’s what Alex will fight for until the day the war is declared complete.  “The very... _ soul  _ of a Republic is virtue.  Equality! And so you will tell them.  You will tell these men who challenge you, and beg for a republic but spit in the face of the truth of what a republic is, that in order to ensure our goal is found, they  must set aside their personal conflicts.  

“The first... _ care,  _ if you will, of a legislator ought to be to fortify the principle of the government.  We seek a government of equality.  And thus... equality is what they must adhere to.  A popular government is to be trustful towards the people and severe towards itself.  And to be truly trustful, to truly reach that pinnacle that we all desire, that freedom that we all long for, we must smother all enemies of such Republic.  Internal, and external.  Else the Republic will perish before the first policy is pronounced.  And so... when you travel south…”

The final words stall.  Alex isn’t even sure why.  Perhaps it’s the gravitas nature of it all.  Perhaps it’s the way that John’s staring up at him.  Heartbroken and tragic.  “Terror,” John whispers. 

“Yes.  You must...lead the people by reason and the people's enemies by terror.”

Slave riots on the islands left the people screaming for days.  But once free, the people knew not what to do with their freedom.  They became enslaved again.  Beaten again.  Killed as examples.  John and Alex share a brand that seals their fate.  They are slaves to the British Empire.  They will continue to be so until the day the empire is no more. 

And in good conscience, Alex cannot allow any other man or woman or child to live under such conditions.  He kisses John again.  “You must teach them how to say goodbye, my dear Laurens.  For there will be no tomorrow in America, so long as slavery persists.  And there will be no victory in this war, so long as an army does not gather.” 

John closes his eyes.  Twists his head to the side and instead just pulls Alex so they rest chest to chest.  Embracing in the dark.  “I will see you again,” Alex swears.  

John does not reply. 

 

***

 

Ben is only slightly put off by the idea that Mary intends to travel with John.  Washington meets with her privately to discuss her intentions, but even when he’s finished conversing with her, it’s clear her mind is set.  Papers are drafted.  Martin Riley.  Her new alias.  She’s given no rank.  Martin, however, has been made lieutenant-colonel.  The only rank suitable for a proper aide-to-camp.  Though Washington looks fairly green as he informs them of his decision.  

With their ship restocked, and their plans set, Alex stands to the side and watches as John and Mary give their final goodbyes.  He draws John into one final hug.  Daring a kiss upon John’s cheek before they release one another.  “You won’t forget?” Alex asks John quietly.  

“It’s difficult to put your words entirely out of my mind, Alexander,” John quips in turn.  The joke falls somewhat flat, however.  He hasn’t managed the appropriate expression to go along with it.  His eyes are dull and his skin still seems waxy pale.  “We will meet again.” 

Nodding to him, then managing a polite farewell to  _ Martin,  _ Alex takes his first steps off the ship.  His first steps on land.  Machias, Maine.  It feels almost like prophecy.  As the Captain of their ship starts making the calls to pull out of port, Alex turns to watch.  He cannot see John by the rail.  Cannot see Martha, Mary, Martin, or whatever else she decides to call herself.  Can only see the ship as it pulls away.  Sailors calling order back and forth. 

And only now, as he watches the ship leave, does Alex stop to wonder.   _ How will we write to one another?   _ No system has been put in place.  No reliable form of communication can transfer from so far south to so far north.  Messages and orders will conflict and override.  Washington’s promotion of John suddenly become all the more clear. 

John’s been given the south.  And all he’s been given for assistance is a woman who cannot fire a gun, knows nothing about accounts, or ledgers, or even how to manage the delicacies of a war.  And his only other consolation had been a fervent speech of revolution given from a man struggling to make sense of his own thoughts.  Alex clenches his fists.  “Come along, Hamilton,” Ben hisses in his ear.  “We’ll want to get off the road.”  

There’s no time to find solutions now.  

So he turns, and commits himself to a careful and measured walk.  Months at sea have left his legs unbalanced on solid ground.  Alex’s knees wobble as he expects the earth to shift at any moment.  He stumbles for far too long.  Grumbling and gritting.  Overcompensating with each elongated stride.  Ben seems as if he wants to laugh, but he keeps his opinions to himself.  

Ben arranges for a room at Burnham Tavern, and they slide up the stairs single file.  It will be tight, the four of them attempting to manage on the two provided beds.  Washington and Steuben are far too large to share, and so it’ll need to be split between Ben and Alex as to whom sleeps with whom.  Ben is particularly aggrieved when he loses the coin toss.  

Curling up on the bed with Steuben and glaring daggers at Alex the whole while.  It brings a smile to Alex’s face.  Familiarity sinking like a stone.  He’s missed Ben.  Ben and all his attention to detail, his meticulous nature, and vibrancy.  He’s missed teasing Ben and watching as Ben’s ears turned red as he attempted to come up with an appropriate response.  

Ben’s never been particularly clever at linguistic entanglements.  He could read a missive and devise an underhanded strategy faster than any proper person should, but he struggles over jokes.  He needs to ask for clarifications in puns.  He’s humorous, entirely because he’s  _ not  _ humorous.

All things considered, there’s very little to find humorous in the first place.  There’s a kind of gloom that’s settled amongst them all.  An unease that Alex can’t quite put his finger on.  He noted it when they first stepped foot in town, and now that they’re in the tavern...it feels more pervasive.  Down below, there’s very little chatter.  Just drinks being drunk.  Stools shifting from time to time.  

The loud uproarious conversation and card games of times past seem to have vanished entirely.  A fog that blinds all those who encounter it.  Binding them into submission and holding them steady.   _ Slavery _ , Alex’s mind conjures as his tongue lays useless behind his teeth,  _ takes many forms.   _

Sleep doesn’t come easy.  Thoughts of John on his ship, silence that sinks too deep, futures that cannot be divined continue to roll about Alex’s mind.  He tosses about uncomfortably.  Eventually rising so as not to bother Washington more than he absolutely had to.  He sits at the window of their room.  Looking out over Machias, Maine. 

A small town.  A rebellious town.  The sun rises over it, and Alex watches as the children set out for their morning chores.  The bakers begin attending to their shops.  The soldiers in their red coats start to patrol.  “Did you know,” Washington’s voice asks him quietly, rising up through the dark,  “That just out that window is where the war truly started for the people of Maine?” 

“I’d not intended to keep you awake, sir,” Alex tells the window pane.  He doesn’t look back to see the General.  But he does listen as the man shifts.  Sighing as he gathers himself from bed.  Bones creaking and back cracking into place.  Steuben snores with particular volume, but Ben makes not a peep.  Alex doesn’t bother to look.  Either Ben’s fallen into a soldier’s slumber, capable of dozing wherever he’s needed to doze, or he’s awake and listening in.  It doesn’t matter in the end. 

Washington picks something up.  Alex can hear the heavy fabric as it trails across the floor.  It folds around Alex’s shoulders.  Washington pulling it about him close.  His cloak.  Warm and comforting.  Still smelling of smoke from where it rested near a fire not too long ago.  Alex burrows into it.  Soaking the warmth in.  Grateful for spring.  Desperate for summer.  Uneasy about the eventual march of autumn and winter that will soon follow.  

They’ve no supplies to last a winter.  No fortifications that will pull them through.  Valley Forge had been the end of so many of their men when they’d been fighting a proper war.  Now, now they’re looking to begin a march that could take them through a winter with nothing of the surety they’d had before. 

And there  _ hadn’t  _ been much before. 

“The good people of Machias became aware of the events at Lexington and Concord, and tensions rose amongst those in town and the British vessel, the  _ Margretta  _ docked just outside on its shores.”  Just outside the window, some children have begun an argument.  One brandishes a stick at the other.  The soldiers take not notice.  “Then,” Washington continues, “One evening, several young men boarded a small wooden sloop.  These men bravely fought.  Clamboring up to the  _ Margretta  _ and fired upon the sailors that manned her stations.  The commander fled in terror, abandoning his position and all his remaining troops.  Leaving the  _ Margretta  _ to be captured.  The first ship to join the patriot fleet.”

Alex has heard this story before.  Read about it in the papers in King’s College.  Scanning over everything he could to gather as much detail as possible.  He and his schoolmates turned comrades at arms had amplified their drills.  Thoroughly discussed the importance of cannons and ammunition.  How to turn the tide of a battle.  How to win, when all odds seemed lost. 

Washington’s great hand squeezed Alex’s shoulder.  Firm.  “This town is entirely populated by good and proper people.  People who wish nothing more for a country that will respect them, their lives, their their faiths.” 

One of the boy swings their stick, and the other boy ducks.  Tumbling to the side as the stick slashes outward and strikes the arm of a soldier dressed in red.  Alex’s breath catches in his throat.   _ Stop.  _  The soldier turns.  Snatches the boy by the arm and shakes him bodily.  The other child runs.  Is immediately caught by one of the other soldiers. 

_ Stop.  _

The townsfolk stand frozen.  Watching the scene with unmitigated horror as the foolish boys scramble in the soldiers’ grasps.  They’re shrill screams of apology meaning nothing in the face of their tormentors. 

Ben is out of bed.  Awake then.  Likely had been all this time.  He rushes to the window and observes.  Jaw set.  “Is this a common occurrence?” Washington asks Ben quietly.  His voice is low.  His anger rising.  Sharp eyes stare pointedly out a glass frame.  The only barrier between him and the scene that plays out not far away.  

Ben answers with a hiss.  His tone strangled and wrong.  He’s dressing quickly.  Turning away from the scene so he can slide his feet into boots.  Wake Steuben.  “Yes, regrettably.”  The boys are children.  Alex can see the first one receive a strike from his own stick.  Can see the second one preparing for a beating as well.  “We’ll need to leave,” Ben tells them sharply.  Shoving at Steuben’s shoulder until the man snorts through a snore and rises.  “ _ Now  _ before the town is searched.  They’ll be looking for patriots.  Looking for anyone who disagrees with their methods, and we cannot be found when they do.” 

“You mean for us to use this as a distraction for our flight?” Washington questions.  Clarifying the situation with a voice Alex knows.  Knows well.  He hasn’t heard it since they first travelled to London.  Hasn’t heard the aggression or the fury.  The ire or the purely tactical tone of a man who is well used to commanding soldiers and fully intends to be heard.  Here and now. 

A boy shouts.  Alex doesn’t look to see which one.  The stick smacks against the child’s body, though.  Harder and harder.  Murmurs are rising up in the town.  The discipline being carried too far.  No one is intervening.  “What are your commands, sir?” Ben asks.  Resigned.  Accepting.  He bows his head to Washington, and waits. 

“How many british soldiers are in Machias?”

“Forty-seven.  With reinforcements a twenty mile ride south.” 

Forty-seven.  They can manage forty-seven.  It will be difficult.  But it’s possible.  It’s possible, if the people join them.  If the patriots of Machias continue to be the patriots they once were.  Washington turns and meets Alex’s eyes.  “I’m with you sir,” Alex swears.  What else is there to do? 

They don’t have the means or resources to fend off a full and proper British attack here and now.  But forty-seven...forty seven they just might be able to manage.  And regardless of anything else, Washington’s determined.  The man’s stood at a window for long enough.  He has watched... _ his  _ children be beaten long enough. 

And today, the door is open. 

Today, Washington takes up his gun.  He takes up his sword.  They’ve barely enough powder between them all to do much good.   But Alex’s mind is spinning.  His thoughts are falling into line.  Orders and messages being sent and received.  

Boots first.  Cloak off.  He needs the mobility.  His muscles feel weak and ill fitted.  But Steuben had spent the last four months training John and Alex back into posture.  Back into position.  Alex would hate to lose any of that now.  He may not be perfect, but this is the only chance they will have.  If they die now, then at least John has a chance in the south

He wishes John luck.  Then he flashes Steuben a desperate half smile, and follows Washington as he marches out the door

The boys are being beaten, and it’s time for that to stop.  Alex just prays that the people will agree.


	4. Washington

Priming a gun takes time.  It takes energy.  Powder must be poured.  The stopper must be used.  The ball has to be pushed down into place and readied.  And through it all, the screams of the children echo endlessly in Washington’s ear. 

They remind him of John.  Lying flat on a table.  Held down by his brothers in arms. 

Of Lafayette as his arm was shattered.  

Of countless men in the field.  Countless soldiers and boys.  Girls terrified for their lives.  There is no peace in this country.  Nor will there be any time soon.  Washington takes hold his gun, and looks to Alexander.  Alex, who bit back on each scream he’d had in London.  Who traded his voice for peace, and is only now getting it back. 

Alex, who finishes priming his gun and who looks at Washington with the kind of feral viciousness Washington needs right now.  Ben is resigned into this conflict.  Prepared, but uncertain of the outcome.  Ben doesn’t like variables.  He likes sense.  Logic.  Order.  Alex and Washington did too at one point. 

But there are children screaming.  Being beaten.  And Washington is tired of hiding in the dark.  Now is not the time to cross the Delaware at night.  Now’s the time to storm into the streets.  Raise up the liberty pole, and announce to all the world--freedom is here.  But only if you fight for it. 

Turning on his heel, Washington descends from their room.  He ignores the absurd gathering of onlookers.  A trove of unmentionables who Washington cannot abide by.  Cowering rather than interfering.  They are a country neutered.  Unwilling to fight.  Unwilling to stand up. 

_ Too long have they given in to their melancholia,  _ Washington thinks bitterly. Vision tunnelling.  Intentions solidifying.   _ Too long have have they stood to the side.   _ Marching past each and every one of them, Washington listens.  Listens as they shift out of his way.  As they take steps backward.  As they avoid his warpath.  He listens as they murmur amongst themselves.  As they chatter nervously.  As they share expressions with one another.   _ What are they meant to do now?  _

They’re meant to watch. 

Watch.  And preferably learn. 

Alex is at Washington’s back.  A son of his heart who he would have with him for all his days.  Who he would entrust a thousand armies to.  A man who knows his mind better than most;  who understands the foolish endeavour he’s prepared to embark on.  Who still follows anyway.  Differences of opinion never rise here.  Here, there is loyalty.  There is faith.  Washington couldn’t ask for a more perfect soldier. 

“Sir,” Alex intercedes as Washington rests his hand on the door.  He pauses.  Waits for Alex to continue.  His boy’s mouth opens.  Closes.  A frustrated grimace sliding across his features, before he finally manages to spit out the words he’d intended to say.  “It’s...not going to be particularly gentlemanly.” 

“No,” Washington agrees.  “It most certainly will not.”  Without another word, Washington marches forth.  Stepping out of the tavern as both Alex and Ben struggle to match his long stride.  They walk together.  A militia of three, armed with one pistol a piece.  Their shots had best ring true.  For as soon as they’re fired, chaos will reign upon their town.  

There’s powder strapped to the soldiers’ bodies.  Looting will be their first priority.  Scavenging their second.  The ammunition will be essential, however Washington knows full well that a great deal of damage can be done with just a kitchen knife.  An axe.  A wooden club.  

Wars were fought for years without guns.  And if it their battle ends in bloodied hands and torn nails, then Washington intends to lead that charge too.  This country will no longer fall victim to the bloodlust of their enemies.  

Their children will know longer find their bodies splayed out on the earth. 

Washington can see the boys clearly now.  Both of them.  Young children.  Scamps, really.  Curled up on the ground with their arms covering their heads.  They’re sobbing loudly.  Beaten harder and harder with a stick a piece.  There’d only been one stick initially, but the second soldier must have another.   _ Clever him.  _ Washington thinks savagely.  He finds it in him to speak with authoritative calm.  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” Washington calls out.  His hand tight on his gun, only half hidden by his cloak. 

The soldier first soldier, the one who started all of this, looks up.  Breath snorting from his nostrils.  “Move along man, this is none of your concern.”  

“That boy  _ is  _ my concern,” Washington proclaims firmly.  

The second soldier steps  _ over  _ the crumpled child he’d just beaten bloody.  Boot kicking the boy in the shoulder as he walked.  Asking, “You his father?” as he draws near. 

From over his shoulder, Washington can hear Alex’s breath hitch.  Half a laugh.  Not even close to a full one.  And yet.  Washington can almost find the humor in it as well.  Can almost see the joke fully formed.  Can hear how Alex would have said it.  No, not Alex.  John maybe.  No.  It’d have been Lafayette.  Lafayette would have been the only one with the  _ gall  _ to have uttered the joke. 

The Marquis’ well loved voice echoes between Washington’s ears.   _ Might as well be, sir, seeing as how he collects sons to his family.  _  “No,” Washington replies.  “But he is my concern nonetheless.”  

The bystanders have gathered in full.  All watching on baited breath.  Washington hears his name uttered once.  Wise eyes recognizing his face.  His posture.  His height, most likely.  And maybe perhaps his stature.  Alex and Ben at his sides.  The voice grows with confidence.  “He’s  _ alive,”  _ whispered amongst the people of Machias, Maine.  

_ Yes,  _ Washington thinks.   _ I am.   _ And he is not the same man as the man who’d left the colonies more than a year before.  

“You will not harm these children any longer.  Their offense was minor and their crime negligible.  You’re taking advantage of a child’s clumsy nature.  Reveling in brutality.” 

When the first soldier dares to raise his stick to strike the boy at his feet.  Washington reveals his gun, stating with no small amount of pride: “My name is General George Washington of the Continental Army.  I have returned to America from London, and I intend to see her people set free from you and all those who abuse her.” 

The crowd is breathless.  Ben shifts to the left.  Lines up.  “You-you’re who?” the soldier asks.  Startled and off guard.  It doesn’t matter.  Washington fires a single shot.  And it sails true.  Striking the man between the ribs and sending him to the ground.  Ben gets the next shot off, delivering a mortal blow to the second soldier while Alex takes front position and scans immediately for reinforcements.  

They come almost immediately. 

Women scream.  Ducking back inside their homes.  Ben hurries to the boys.  Lifting one up and shoving him into the arm of a passerby.  Getting another to haul off the second child.  Two men rush in for the rifles the soldiers had been carrying.  Rocks are lifted.  Rioters shouting in mere moments.  

Red coated soldiers hurry forth, following the sounds of chaos.  And when they arrive they are met by a mob.  Rocks thrown.  Shots fired.  Alex takes aim and pulls his trigger.  Striking a man in the side and sending him to the ground.  Washington sets in to prime his pistol even as he prepares for the blood and the indignity of chaos and riot.  Alex and Ben standing before him, blocking him from view. 

It’s chaos. 

Mayhem. 

Someone’s started a rally call, chanting  _ Liberty! Liberty!  _ Crowds rush the square.  Soldiers clutch their guns in shock.  They turn to their captains, desperate for commands.  No answers come to them.  No explanations or assistance.  The commanders are frozen.  They sputter uselessly.  

Shots are fired into the crowd.  Rioters fall, but the chants keep rising.   _ Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!  _ Washington’s gun is ready and he nods to his boys and they rejoin the fray.  Rushing forward.  Sliding to the front.  Alex is breathless as he keeps up with Washington’s pace.  But he doesn’t stop.  He maintains his stride.  Ben managing far better. 

“Stop!” The British commander calls.  “You must stop this at once or—” a rock is thrown.  Someone from the crowd.   _ Freedom for America,  _ shouted with shrieking vigor.  The rock smashes soundly against the man’s head.  Law has fallen out of place.  The man stumbles backward.  Eyes bulging as blood streaks down from his hairline.  He raises his hand and opens his mouth. 

_ Liberty! _ The people chant. 

_ Liberty!  _ The people call.

Washington tries to keep track of  _ his  _ boys.  Distracted in a way a good commander shouldn’t be, and yet invariably fails nonetheless.  He searches the chaos for them.  Finds Alex - the young man is darting forward toward a better position.  And almost as soon as Washington sees his so-called son, he sees another directly opposite.  The British commander, aiming directly at Alexander.  Not even ten paces out.  Washington opens his mouth.  A warning that he knows will be too late.  

But—

A bird.  No.  A raven!

One of the fledglings.  Now fully grown.  Wings free for flying.  It descends from the sky like a cannonball.  Black wings peaked in a dive.  Until they pull back.  Talons extended.  Beak open as it calls out a furious call of anger and hate.  Its talons tear into the commander’s face.  The man’s gun goes off mark and Alex fires.  Killing the man as the bird flies back up into the sky.  Circling.  Circling!

_ Liberty!  _ The people call. 

_ Liberty! _

Washington can see Ben turn out of the corner of his eye.  Staring at him in dumb shock.  There’s no time.  None at all.  “Where are the guns and ammunition kept?” Washington asks him. 

“Town hall, three streets up and then a left. It’s a big building.  Well fortified and defended.”

Yes.  But there will be no food or water behind those walls.  Which means in three days, either the town will have their weapons returned, or the British will destroy it all before they suffer dehydration and are overrun.  Washington moves forward.  Missing the feeling of a horse beneath him.  True  _ soldiers,  _ rather than rioters, standing ready to fight for him. 

His mind snatches bits and pieces of information.  What is red.  How many have fallen.  Ten.  Fifteen.  Nearing twenty.  Half the problem defeated already and they’ll be needing to press on if they wish to continue this.  The momentum gathering.  The streets are filled with rioters.  “Ben, go to the stables, stop any riders from leaving.” The man disperses at once.  

Leaving Washington to re-engage the enemy.  Drawing his sword he advances to the front.  Iconography.  The people need a symbol.  A story.  A message to tell and pass through word of mouth.  They need to speak of this victory and use it to motivate other towns to do the same.  Showmanship.  A little bit of showmanship.  

He is unused to playing the actor.  Politics in its very nature requires the ability to conduct oneself opposite to any personal beliefs.  The same is true for a war.  And as a General, there are aspects of this assault that leave him feeling dull and dimwitted.  Irresponsible at best, reckless and foolhardy at worst. But this level of showmanship is... _ required.   _

The chanting is rising.  The streets are filling.  Men and women alike.  Overcoming the meager forces meant to contain the town by their mere numbers.  Alex is gifted with a sword and he strikes men through.  The raven flying above them all.  Cawing louder and louder.  Echoing each chant of  _ Liberty!  _ With three eerily similar caws.  

Washington leads the crowd.  He must.  There’s no alternative, no second chance.  If they fail here, then they’ll fail elsewhere.  Alex had told him about the hells of riots.  The mentality of the people rising so that sense and logic fails each and every time.  There is only the desire to inflict pain and punishment on those who are accused of wrongdoing.  And if that falters even for a moment, then the remaining British and all possible reinforces will overrun the town.  

He has to be in front.  He has to bring the crowd with him rally them all under a single voice.  A single name.  They rush after him.  Spilling into the streets. 

And whether by luck or simply strokes of fortune, somehow—they win. 

 

***

 

When a battle ends, and the fight is over, silence feels strange.  Washington’s heart beats in his chest the same as it did before the violence took place.  But it takes effort to breathe slowly.  It takes effort to ask Ben and Alex for updates on the town.  To check in with the townspeople.  To rationalize what’s been done, and what will be done. 

These aren’t soldiers who are willing to fight in a war.  These are men and women who had gone about their day thinking they were going to repeat the same old process from the day before.  They expected sameness.  And now.  Newness takes its place.  Creeping in.  Skulking over their downcast heads and pulling back on their hair.  Forcing them to look up and see.  

The world is different now.

Blood splatters the skirts of the women.  The knuckles of the men.  The wispy curls of children who had tried to stay out of the frey but were caught up in it in the way that all people are. 

Washington draws his eyes from the crowd.  He finds Alex and Ben.  Steuben slowly making his way forward.  The raven from before has come.  Landed on Alex’s shoulder and nuzzling the side of his head.  

They’d had arguments on the ship.  The boys that is.  Sitting about with their ravens.  Stroking feathers and keeping the birds warm.  Neither John nor Alex knew what to call the birds.  Terrible with names.   _ Liberty! Liberty!  _ Keeps chanting through the town.  The raven caws proudly and Alex winces.  Too loud.  Too close to his head.  But the name settles.  Liberty it is.  

Ben informs them that he believes he managed to stop any riders from leaving.  But if there are Tories in the town, they won’t be able to stop them from slipping away unseen and unheard.  

They won’t be able to hold the town.  Not with the supplies that they have.  The people here.  These aren’t soldiers.  And Washington’s body...after so long at rest...feels weak.  His muscles ache.  Back tight.  Neck stiff.  He looks out amongst the faces of the town and he feels a rising sense of concern.  Urgency. 

They need to move quickly. 

Urgently.  

The people gather in the town hall.  Guns and ammunition returned to them.  “We’ll need this for the war,” Alex whispers quietly.  Keeping his head down.  Face turned away from the people eager to reclaim their prizes.  

Words find their way to Washington’s lips.  Leaving him with each breath of exhaustion.   “They need to be able to protect themselves.” His head aches.  He steadies himself with visions of his son.  Blood’s splattered on Alex’s clothing, but there are no signs of harm to him physically.  Bruising.  Maybe.  Along his cheek.  Washington touches the tender flesh. 

“I’m fine,” Alex tells him firmly.  Stepping back.  Turning away.  Looking over the people.  More are coming.  Flooding the town hall.  Filling it to the brim.  Ben and Alex flank Washington’s sides as Steuben bustles to a seat at the front.  Large frame shoving its way through the crowd.  

Pretty words and mob mentality will only take them so far.  As Washington looks out amongst those gathered, he cannot help but wonder if he’s ruined it all once again.  Started a fight without committing himself utterly to the consequences that may arise from them. 

Washington takes stock. 

What food does a town like Machias have readily available?  What other provisions?  Who are Machias’s closest allies and who can they count on for support?  Numbers flood through Washington’s mind as Alex takes dictation.  His pen flies across papers that are eagerly supplied by those who must think Washington a hero.  A fated man from legends of old.  One who rises up from the depths of despair to triumph over the impossible odds in order to conquer the empire that looks to weaken the fair people.

They stare at him with a kind of worship best reserved for clerics praising be to God.  They expect miracles where Washington’s weathered hands have none to cast.  Machias has done something foolish, and they’ve done it because he rushed in.  He rushed in and led an attack without first considering the consequences of such action.  And now that he’s here.  He must accept those options. 

Machias is not the place to start a war.  And with John at sea, anything that could further endanger his precarious position would be a waste entirely.  The people look to him, and Washington breathes in deep.  Breathes slow.  Back straight.  Head up.  Stand tall and look proud.  His teeth ache him.  A reminder that as pretty as the picture may seem, something rotten always lays within. 

The people want a message, and he provides it as meticulously and as concisely as he can.  _ We need riders.   _ He knows.  Riders to send out the message.  Send out the call.  Let the people of America know what has landed on their shores.  Washington can see Alex out of the corner of his eye.  As Washington stands before them, Alex falls into his position.  A perfect soldier.  A perfect aide-to-camp.  A perfect son. 

Washington speaks, and the people listen.  “I have stood on the battleground, fighting for the idea of a nation.  A nation of American people.  United and brought together under one banner.  A banner that determined these people as  _ Americans.   _ As free men and women.  Not slaves to be beaten.  Not servants forced to bend their necks.  And we have lost that fight.”

He pauses.  Silence reigns.  In his mind’s eye he sees his men on the field.  Soldiers dressed in blue and grey.  Screaming as cannons fire and blood splatters.  Washington hears the sound of the drums beating out an execution march.  The sound of a rope going taught.  

He dares not look at Alex.  At Ben.  Dares not look at them, for fear of losing the fragile calm that wraps around him now.  For if he does, he will see faces in the dark.  Smeared with dirt and grime.  Waiting for their turn at the gallows. “We lost that fight,” Washington states with all the ferocity he can manage.  “We lost.  And nothing has changed.  The empire that sought to own our dear colonies still owns it, and the people—the people are still enslaved.  But the fire that burned in the hearts of our countrymen did not die when our banners fell on the field.  Nor did they die when good soldiers were put to death to serve as examples.

“The fire burned still.”  He clenches his fists and holds his hands in the air.  The people watch.  Enraptured through his speech.  “Through the night and the dark and the pain and burden.  When the homes of our people were overrun, when the children we raised were beaten, the fire  _ burned.   _ The time is now at hand, where all Americans must determine if that fire that they felt within their hearts, that desire to be declared a freeman or a slave, is one that they can bear to contain any longer.  

“If before America struggled to bear the burden of her British master, then now she shows sign of collapse.”  Washington’s back aches.  His muscles burn, but he refuses to break posture.  Will not falter in his position.  He presses onwards.  An attack in its own way.  “America cannot withstand her houses and farms pillaged or destroyed any longer.  She cannot consign herself to a state of wretchedness from which no human efforts will deliver her.  And the American people, and the state of  _ your  _ unborn millions, now depend on the choices that are made in this night.  In the coming days.  In the face of an army that has proven it  _ can  _ do everything in it’s power to defeat us.  To destroy us.  To smother the flame to ash.  Scatter us into a wind where no spark dare to rekindle.”

Wind slaps at the shutters.  The hall creaks.  The people are deathly still.  Eerily silent where shouts of enthusiasm or the slapping of hands on wood would once be considered hallmarks of a successful.  This is a battle that Washington has not yet won, but he dares not withdraw.  Dares not release the hold he has now on the people and their attention.  Will hold onto it until the very last.  They have nothing, if not this.  They  _ will  _ have nothing, if he should fail. 

“When first the enemy stood before us we sent boys into the field to fight.  To attack.  Now we stand and we have lost our sons.  We have lost our daughters.  Husbands and wives have fallen to the horrors of war.  But this war is one that fate has decided for us.  And our country’s honour calls us, to stand.  To pose for a vigorous and manly exertion; providing for no more failures.  Providing for no more loss of unnecessary life.  For this is our country.  Our people.  And we can no longer sit idly by and allow the tormentors of a master wield a whip in the face of our nation. 

“We must stand now.  United as one people,” Washington takes a breath.  Looks to the dark skinned faces of those in the back.  The long hair of those in frocks.  The obvious signs of wealth.  Of religion.  “United as one people regardless of race, gender, or creed.  We must stand.  And if we stand, and if we win this day, then we shall become infamous to the whole world.  We shall rise as a democracy that will outlast the Romans.  Brother and sister, with no lines between us.  With nothing but the unification of a nation.   _ Our  _ nation.  A nation that is blessed by the triumphant prayers of the people and saved from the tyranny that has been mediated against it. 

“Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at stake.  But upon your courage now, and in the coming days, with the correct conduct, the hope of our bleeding nation may be restored.”  Alex moves.  Just a little just enough.  A tip of his head.  An almost bow.  Reverence from the man the world now sees as his son.  “And with this courage you grant us, our country may at last be unified and insulated from an enemy that wishes only to torment our people.”

Fingers curled, Washington gestures with each syllable.  Harsh, insistent. “No longer can any person  _ capable _ stand idle.  We are the fire that will spark the flame of the nation.  And for each citizen who is affected by our touch, the fire sparks again.  Sweeping across the nation.”  He points to the gathered persons.  “Our wives, children, and parents can only receive safety that the Lord above grants all people if we take our vigor and passion now, and we spread it to others.  And if we manage this task, if we manage this action, than I have every reason to believe that Heaven will crown this nation with success.  So just is our cause!” 

No one speaks.  No one dares.  He has not finished in their minds.  Has not given them leave to support or argue.  Washington gives them no time to consider.  Forcing his expression to soften, his demeanor to shift from orator to implorer, he asks, “Are there any riders who are willing to take forth this spark?  And spread it through our world?”

The voices start.  The cheering begins.  The chanting grows louder and louder.  It does not stop.  And the champions for justice line themselves to the front.  Machias may not have been the ideal place to restart this war proper, but her people show no signs of cowardice. 

They stand ready, and willing to fight. 


End file.
